


Limitless Potential

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Romantic Fluff, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: When you are somebody like Cyril, it is easy to doubt your worth. Luckily, Lysithea is always there for him – his main source of comfort. It is during a soft, emotional moment that their feelings for one another come to light.
Relationships: Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Limitless Potential

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celicalms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/gifts).



> Dedicated to @celicalms on Twitter - thank you for being a fellow Cysithea fan!
> 
> This was my piece for the "Loveable Bonds" zine, focussed on ships from the Fire Emblem series! If you'd like to learn more about this awesome zine, or download it for free, see here! https://twitter.com/bondsfanzine/status/1288027443207516160?s=20

Cyril's fingers shook. In the candlelit darkness of his dormitory, with evening settling outside, he swallowed a lump in his throat and gave a sniff.

 _"It's fine,_ _"_ he muttered to himself, gripping the quill tighter between his fingers. "You can do it."

He pressed its tip to the page, watching as yet another blotch of black ink began to spread across the parchment. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he attempted desperately to write.

He'd watched people do it countless times: watched Seteth scrawl as if it were second nature, and seen beautiful flowing letters cascade from beneath the Lady Rhea's beautiful feather quills. Yet, when he tried, only jagged, illegible shapes would emerge. He struggled enough to read as it was, but when his penmanship was no more than childish scribbles, trying to make sense of it was impossible.

Heat began to rise against his eyes before he could stop it. Cyril rubbed them with the back of his free hand, giving a sniff, but the teardrops continued to rise, and fell across his cheeks in hot, salty streaks as he blinked.

He was crying. He placed his quill down delicately upon his desk, eyes misty from the tears that swelled in his eyes, and stood.

They would not stop. They came from a place deep within - a place Cyril did not like to think about. He’d pushed all of those feelings away a long time ago; from now on, his duty was to serve the monastery, and find Lady Rhea. He did not need to be distracted by his own inadequacies, nor by his own self-doubt. The blood-red memories of when his parents had died would always rise behind his eyelids to make him feel even worse at times like these, and this was no exception; bad memories and dark, desolate emotions swirled within him to press a weight against his chest.

 _“No,_ _”_ he whispered, hearing his own voice crack in his throat as though he were entering his teen years again. He needed to be strong.

And yet, as he walked towards his small, scruffy little bed, he could not stop himself from bursting into tears. He sat, the squashy mattress beneath him seeming to swallow him up, and let a whine escape his throat as he buried his face in his hands.

One word circled in his head: _useless_. Orphaned, abandoned, and with no use except to be a servant. Granted, he aided the Golden Deer in their battles now with the help of Shamir, but if he couldn’t even _write_ _,_ what use was he?

The sound of scrabbling against the shabby wooden door to his dormitory made him look up, goosebumps rising to his skin in unease. He rubbed his tears away with his knuckles, before the door opened, and a voice like angel’s song came out of the darkness at him:

“Cyril?”

_Lysithea._

Dread crept through his stomach. In a way, Lysithea was the person Cyril wanted to see both most and least in that moment. Her presence was always so comforting to him, regardless of the situation; at the same time, though, Cyril admired her - looked up to her. Her prowess with magic, ability to learn, and her enviable resolve were all things Cyril could only ever dream of having for himself. The sensation of uselessness always rose within him when he watched her, and tonight would be no exception.

Lysithea closed the door behind herself and crossed the room. When she spoke, her voice was frantic. “Are you okay!? I heard you crying!”

Cyril watched her approach. She was dressed as beautifully as always, with the deep purple of her dress looking almost black in the room’s low light. Now, however, her hair was loose; the silvery white flowed behind her as she walked, looking almost like a river’s waters - smooth, gentle, and beautiful - undisturbed by the hairpieces she so often donned.

“Sorry if I bothered you,” he said, his voice shaking.

“No, not at all.” The young woman stood over him for a moment before sitting next to him on the bed, placing one warm hand upon his back. It sent butterflies flickering through his stomach. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Cyril lied. “You can’t be worrying about me - not now. You’ve got too much to think about already--”

“Hey.” Her voice was so soft - so light - and yet still so stern. It would never fail to make him smile, how one small and noble woman could have such a commanding voice. “I’ll always have time for you. Tell me, what’s up?”

Cyril heaved a sigh. “It’s stupid anyway.” But, when all she did in return was nod encouragingly at him, a small smile lifting the corners of her slim lips, he felt compelled to continue. “I was just… trying to write.” Even those few small words made tears rise in his eyes again. “But, I can’t. I’m… _useless--_ ” His throat tightened, voice becoming choked, and he had to stop. He looked to the ceiling, dark and dingy, and tried to blink back the rising heat.

“It’s okay to let it all out sometimes,” Lysithea told him. “Crying doesn’t make you weak, you know.”

Cyril sniffed, rubbing at his stinging eyes yet again. “It doesn’t…?” he asked.

“Of course not, silly! Plus, it’s understandable. Writing is something that’s meant to be easy, but learning it must be super hard,” she said, rubbing his back lightly where her hand remained upon it. “So, cry. I’m here for you.”

At those words, his eyelids became heavy and drifted shut. Slowly, he felt himself sinking until his forehead rested upon her shoulder - bony and uncomfortable as it was - and he let himself sob some more. He felt weak, and pointless, and embarrassed, but feeling her arms wrap around him helped; perhaps, just this once, he could let his guard down. 

Through it all, he supposed Lysithea _had_ always been there for him. Whether she’d intended to or not, she had comforted him; she could be blunt, and to-the-point, and even a little irritable on occasion, but Cyril had found that he… loved it.

Perhaps he loved _her._

_Wait… what was that?_

He sniffled, the sound grating his ears at how pathetic and small it sounded, and lifted his head from Lysithea’s shoulder. Her scent - floral, like a faint and faded perfume - left his nostrils as he shuffled away from her. He wanted that scent back. He wanted to bathe in it every day of his life, its aroma so delicate and comforting, warming his chest and his heart and creating a fuzziness in the pit of his stomach.

He’d never felt like this about anybody before.

“You’re not useless, Cyril,” she said, her words as soft as a Garland Moon breeze. “You’re the opposite.”

Cyril chuckled ever-so-slightly, the sound seeming hollow in his chest. “I’m use _ful_ _?”_ he asked, an empty jest.

But Lysithea took it seriously. “More than you could know. You don’t just help out the monastery, and the Golden Deer… you help me, too.”

“I do?”

She nodded, the candlelight upon her skin illuminating the beautiful, delicate structure of her face. “You’re the best friend I could ask for. You don’t judge, or expect anything of me… Sometimes it seems like you don’t even care about who I am - or _what_ I am… You’re just there for me. No matter what.”

Cyril hadn’t expected that. “Thanks, Lysithea…” He watched her eyelashes flutter gently over rosy eyes. The fact that anybody as smart and talented as Lysithea could say such nice words about him felt almost unreal: he could not feel that he deserved them. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

“Well, you deserve to hear it.” She looked down, and then gently slipped her hands over Cyril’s own. They emanated warmth, and as Cyril felt her delicate fingers tighten around his own, he felt heat begin to flicker in his chest, the butterflies returning tenfold. “I don’t care whether you can write or not. I appreciate you for who you are. I…” Her blushing gaze fell downwards, towards their intertwined hands. “... I _love_ you for who you are.”


End file.
